Jester's Fortune

PROLOGUE

It was a chilly, blustery March morning, only just a little warmer than the winter days that had preceded it. Here, even near the ocean at Nice, springtime was only beginning to make its mark, and that—like the temperatures—was only a matter of degree. Icy mountain streams that the coaches had crossed on their madcap dash from Paris, roaring down the steep slopes of Provence days before, had begun to swell and churn with meltwater from the towering crags of the forbidding Maritime Alps.

Yet, it was a clear, cerulean blue morning, and the winds off the Mediterranean were now and then stronger than those that slumped off the snow-covered slopes far inland. Each sea-gust was as tantalisingly warm as the easy, unguarded waft of a sleeping lover’s breath. By the end of the month—no later than the middle of the next, certainly—the rugged mountain roads, now nigh-impassable, would melt clear, then begin to dry. The passes that led east and south would be usable. And, God willing, the young general in the lead coach thought, there would be good campaign weather.

His army could finally begin to march.

He almost scoffed at the condition of his army! He’d seen them, here around Nice in their winter quarters, in conquered, compromised, and complaisant Savoy; ragged, hungry troops with the pinched faces of starving foxes. Some in blue tunics and Republican trousers, as required in Regulations; some still in Bourbon white of pre-Revolutionary Royalist regiments. Patched and raveled, all of them, by now, their shoes and boots worn out, wearing wooden sabot clogs, feet wrapped in tattered remnants of blankets or Italian peasant straw sandals. Hats as varied as civilian or military fashions, they wore whatever they could trade for, mend or steal. Wool peasants’ berets, long-tasseled Jacobin caps—even their sleeping caps.

He had 36,570 infantry, the young, newly promoted general pondered—for he was a man in love with numbers—3,300 cavalry, 1,700 artillerists, engineers and field police, stable-men, farriers, armourers, aides or commissionaires—41,570 officers and men, all told.

He frowned. An uninspiring infantry, though, a cavalry arm on the worst collection of spavined nags he’d ever beheld. Too few guns to suit him, since he’d come up from the Artillery. But these men had secured Marseilles in ’93, had besieged, then retaken Toulon in the same year, skirmished and fought little wastrel battles in those hills against the Piedmontese and Austrians, even routed their General de Vins and secured the Riviera from Savona to Voltri the previous autumn. They’d spent a winter’s penury, grumbling and pinch-gutted, their pay so far in arrears, their precious news from home so long delayed, it would be a miracle if he could wield them in battle more than once without breaking possibly the only real army of any sort he’d get.

The young general leaned out of the coach windows to study those men who lined the approaches to the parade ground, as the staff carriages rattled into camp.

Pinched they might be, surly and starving, feeling abandoned by their own country, and their leaders, the Directory of Five, in distant Paris. But they were for the most part rugged men, an army made of men of the South; Provençals, Gascons, mountaineers from Dauphin and Savoy. And some of his Corsicans, of course.

He’d come south as quick as lightning, eager for the challenge no matter how daunting, fired by the charge in his orders from Barras and the rest of the Directory, from the Army:

Take this raggedy-arsed army into Piedmont and conquer all of the rich upper Po Valley; defeat the Piedmontese, then the Austrians. Conquer the Austrian duchy of Milan; cow the rest of Italy; secure a quiet border so troops could be turned against the last rebellious holdouts inside France; by his actions, divert the Austrians from an invasion across the Rhine. And loot. For God’s sake, loot to fill the empty coffers before the great ideal of their Cause went down to abject defeat and the sneers of the world for a lack of money. Before it became an historical footnote for the want of a few sous! It was his plan, to the tee—accepted, at last.

A reminder, Junot, he said to the harried aide-de-camp at his side, M’sieur Saliceti is to go to those whimpering hounds at Genoa. Now we hold the whip-hand over them, hein? He is to arrange a loan on their treasury, at the most favourable terms he may obtain for France. We let them pay, or be conquered, as well. And Saliceti is to demand free passage for our troops through Genoese territory. Or else.

Demand, sir? Junot murmured in puzzlement, scribbling on a pad with a pencil—a French invention, the lead pencil. But I thought—

Oui, demand. The general snickered. For a reason, Junot. If nothing else, he must get grain for both men and horses. And boots. I insist on boots. With bread and boots, I can manage.

There was the staff to welcome his coach; the young cavalryman, Murat—the fearless. Mad as a hatter, as the English might say, like all cavalrymen. Like his senior, the mad Irish general Kilmaine, at his side. At the head of the pack stood General Louis Alexandre Berthier, the oldest at forty-three, and a former Royalist officer who’d fought with distinction in the American Revolution; Berthier, with a mind as quick as a musket’s fire-lock, as calm and steely as the jaws of a bear-trap—his chief of staff, who forgot nothing.

Massena behind him, whip-thin and wiry, cursed with a nose like a down-turned sabre, and darting, shifty eyes. He was a former man of the ranks who’d spent fourteen years as a sergeant-major, since common men could not rise higher in the old Royal Army. A clever smuggler, it was said. Yet Massena was also known as a man whose shifty eyes were able to divine the least advantage of terrain, and that large nose of his could smell a way to do a foe a mortal hurt.

Massena he’d have to watch, though; it was well known he wished command of this army for himself. How best to use those eyes and nose to his advantage, yet keep Massena subservient, might prove to be a problem—as if the young general didn’t have problems enough for three already. He would require Massena’s loyalty to implement his complete plans for this army.

Even more of a puzzle was his last general of division, Charles Augereau. Incredibly loud, foulmouthed and uncouth, with the quick, scathing and glib patois of the Paris gutters; a slangy ex-sergeant himself, now risen to glory—and still as unbelievably lewd as any drillmaster, as chattery as a pirate’s parrot. A fighter, though.

With these I’m to conquer Italy, the young general thought in chagrin, ready to shiver in despair. A gust of mountain wind made him almost do so, but he conquered the impulse by dint of will; he’d show no sign of timidity, dread or doubt before these ambitious officers—not even the slightest pinch of second thoughts could he afford to display before his new-awarded army.

Salutes were exchanged, to-one’s-face politenesses said before the troop review began. A horse was led up, a magnificent dapple-grey gelding, bedecked with all the martial trappings due a commanding general. The young man flung off his overcoat to expose his blue tunic, heavy with gold-lace oak wreathing, the sword at his side, the red-white-blue sash about his waist. By sheer perseverance—his thighs would never be strong enough to make him an excellent horseman— he’d become comfortable in the saddle at the old military school at Brienne.

No matter the egalitarian or fraternal ideals of the Revolution, the young general knew that the men in the ranks still stood in awe of the mounted, of those who could master a horse. A short fellow, as the general was, could loom over even the tallest of his hoary grenadiers. First impressions were important.

° ° °

Instead of forcing the troops to churn the mud of the camp in order to pass his reviewing stand, their new general went to them, clattering from unit to unit, sabre-chains and bitt-chains jingling. And in most of the demi-brigades and battalions he saw, those that had served at Toulon—in his batteries on the south side of the harbour, or in the midnight charge in the rain upon L’Eguillettes Fort, where his 2,000 reserves had rallied old General Dugommier’s 5,000 after they’d broken, and had conquered—he found familiar faces. And with his encyclopaedic memory, he came up with names and ranks to match those faces, and old japes to dredge up in comradely bonhomie.

He left a sea of smiles behind in every unit, those veterans he’d called to by name standing prouder among their fellows.

Soldiers of France! he called, once he’d completed the review and taken a stance atop a pile of boulders near the edge of the parade ground. "Soldiers of the Army of Italy . . . hear me! You are hungry. You are shoeless, ragged and tired. You have not the price of bread, meat or wine, and your pay is in arrears. And that is in assignats, not coin. Soon the Piedmontese, the Austrians, maybe even the ‘Bloodies,’ the English, will come against you. They intend to beat you. They still mean to defeat you, and with you . . . la belle France, and our Revolution! Then grind our nation into the dirt, and impose their kings and princes over us once again! Our foes are implacable. Therefore, so must you be. So must we all be!

With me from Paris, I have brought General Chauvet, our paymaster. With gold! With coin! the young general added quickly, before his soldiers could jeer and whistle at the mention of Paymaster.

Funds with which to buy rations, boots and blankets, at last.

He lied well, did the young, diminutive general; there were but 8,000 livres in gold coin, nearly all the bankrupt Treasury could give him, and 100,000 livres in bills of exchange—unfortunately drawn on the Bank of Cadiz, from a doubtful friend, royalist Bourbon Spain—which no one might honour, not even the Savoians.

France assigns this to you, soldiers, knowing even then they are still deeply in your debt for your past service, he continued, not even daring to turn and look at the commissioners, those civilian watchdogs and spies from the Directory, who could ruin a man, ranker or general, with a single letter—as damning as any lettre de cachet had imprisoned or murdered people before the Terror, when aristocratic back-stabbing was at its height in the days before the Revolution. A mention of debt owed could be construed as defeatist talk, spreading gloom and bitterness among his own troops!

On all sides we are beset, soldiers, the general went on in a surprisingly powerful voice from such a wee frame; for he was deep-chested, if nothing else. "For now that is all that France has, and they send it to you, to ready you for another season’s campaigning . . . to sustain you for a time, so we may defeat our foes, and protect all we cherish! All they have, to you, most of all!

Soldiers of France, I have seen you . . . proud veterans of four years of fighting! He bellowed. We know each other, from earlier battles, hein? And I am most satisfied with your bearing . . . ragged though you are . . . because I see your pride! Your unflinching devotion to our Republic . . . and the steadiness of your eyes! Such men as you can never be beaten! With troops such as you, France will never be beaten! With hearts as stout as yours! . . .

Cheap theatrics, General Augereau grunted softly. Jesus fucking Christ! General Schérer was an ass with ears, but a modest ass. Now, who pops up to replace him but—

He’s good, Charles, General Andre Massena whispered back from the side of his mouth. Have to give him that. Brilliant.

Brilliant doesn’t pay the whore, Augereau grumbled. He marries Paul Barras’s former mistress, this new bride of his. . . a favour for Barras, now he’s one of the Five. And he gets us as his reward for taking the blowsy cunt . . . pardon à moi, the ‘incomparable Josephine,’ to wife. And if he shows me that miniature portrait of the bitch one more time, I’ll rip his tiny leg off and beat his tiny skull in with it! That’ll shit on his puppet show!

General Andre Massena feigned a cough, partly in warning for the incorrigible Augereau to stop murmuring and carping; and partly so he could hide his helpless snickering fit behind a gloved hand.

Hello, what was this he heard, though . . . ?

Soldiers, to the east and south lies our duty! Their elegant little general was roaring, pointing like a bronze statue for a far horizon, which prompted some of his troops to turn their heads to look.

"There lies Piedmont, ruled by that bloody-handed tyrant, their Victor Amadeus II . . . father-in-law to the beast who would come to rule us again, Comte de Provence . . . who would be King Louis XVIII! There lies aristocratic Austria, who would trample our beloved France beneath the boots of their enslaved peasants, yet deny them the rights you as free, Republican Frenchmen enjoy!

Piedmont, soldiers! The general shouted. The Po Valleys, the great cities, teeming with untold wealth! Austrian provinces in thrall to despots! There! There is where I will lead you this year! There is where we will be victorious. I will lead you into the most fertile plains in the world! Rich cities and great provinces will be in your power! There, in Italy, soldiers . . . is where we are going to take the fight to our foes. There you will find honour, glory . . . and wealth! In Piedmont, in Lombardy . . . there we will gain victory!

Loot and plunder, clean linen, purses bulging with gold, or things as simple as a belly or knapsack full of bread, meat, cheese and brandy, with a ration-waggon to follow along behind with more. Their little replacement general had lit a fire under them, Massena had to admit. He’d taken them by the throat and made them stand taller, of a sudden. The raucous cheers, the screams of avarice and pride, with the promise of glory-to-come now aflame in them, were deafening.

Even with the organised might of Royal France at their backs, armies larger and better trained than this one, Massena recalled, had come to grief twice in the last hundred years. Maillebois and Villars had both failed to invade Italy. So what did the summer hold for this tag-rag-and-bobtail army? he wondered. And wondered, too, had the Directory given him the command he’d lusted for so eagerly, would he have attempted anything this damn-fool daring?

Mon générals, their new commanding officer said, once he’d quit his crag. Junot, the list. See to it that these five generals of brigade are dismissed at once. I see no fire in their bellies or wits in their skulls. We begin tightening discipline and drill now. This instant. Berthier has the details for you. But I want this army of ours to be drilled, shod, clad and ready to march by the end of the month! There will be no half-measures. Discipline is the nerve of the army, and I will see it taut as a bowstring—or else!

The general had removed his huge cocked hat with its wide gilt bands and Tricolour rosette to address the troops man-to-man, letting his rich chestnut hair fall free to either side of his face, like any good Republican, as common as any man in the ranks. Now he clapped it back on, called for his horse and sprang into the saddle with haste, as if not an idle minute could be wasted. He suddenly seemed two feet taller, even without the horse. Impatient with his spurs, he galloped away, with his aides scurrying to catch him up.

Goddamn, Augereau breathed, now that it was safe to speak aloud. Chilly fucking blue eyes he has. Did you notice?

Alert as an eagle, Charles. Rapt, I think the ‘aristos’ once called it. Massena agreed. Impatient. Restless.

You know, Andre, I can’t understand it, Augereau grunted almost in awe. Been a soldier all my life . . .

That wasn’t strictly the truth; he’d flogged stolen watches on the streets of Turkish Istanbul, taught dancing in the provinces for a time, soldiered in the French and Russian Armies—eloped with a Greek woman to Lisbon, too.

. . . but damned if that little bugger doesn’t half scare the piss out of me all of a sudden!

Their general dictated, arms folded close about his chest, each hand clutching the opposite elbow, head down and pacing slowly. Rarely did he sit for long, Andoche Junot thought with a sigh as he scribbled. Their general was possessed of a rather bad hand. When excited, or wrought by cautious care, his penmanship was almost illegible, and his French still littered with Italian-Corsican misspellings. His speech was laced with mispronunciations of even common words or place-names he’d heard over a hundred times. Perhaps he was cautious now, so as not to appear the stupid, dirty Corsican yokel he’d first been when he began school in France. Andoche Junot shrugged.

. . . have been received by the army with signs of pleasure and the confidence owed to one who was known to have merited your trust, the general concluded the letter to the Directory. The usual close, Junot. And the blah-blah-blah.

Oui, mon général. Junot smirked.

I have a letter of my own to write now, his general hinted, shooing his aide to a desk in the other room. He took the chair where Junot had sat, drew out a sheet of paper and dipped a fresh quill in the inkwell. With a fond sigh, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a miniature portrait of his bride. They’d had only two days in Paris, in that splendid little house of hers at 6 Rue Chanterine, aswim in a pleasant grove of lime trees. Married on the ninth, into a coach on the eleventh, and in Nice by the twenty-seventh. How he ached for her, every waking moment! His incomparable Josephine! Though her real name was Rose Beauharnais, he’d always awarded his loves with made-up names. Earlier, there’d been Eugenie, in Marseilles—he’d called her his Desirée! He sighed. The curse of a man who’d once wished to be a great writer, one who’d create fantasies, epic tales of love so grand, of glory and martial conquest—grander than anything reality offered? He scoffed at that.

He tested the quill’s nib by forming a string of vowels, then his name on a scrap. Too Corsican, Josephine had teased him during their courtship. Your name smacks too much of Paoli and rebels, my dear, and that’s not safe these days, that font of all marital joy had cautioned him. Even though mon cher Paul is one of the Directors, and admires you, he cannot deflect all criticism of you, no matter how successful you’ve been ’til now. And Corsica . . . what happened there, n’est-ce pas? Before the British took it from us? Please them, mon cher! Be more ‘Franchioullard,’ she’d coyly insisted.

He gritted his teeth, thinking of Barras, a good friend . . . one he owed so much. Had he ever, the handsome swine? . . . Had she . . . had they, before? . . . And with him away . . . no! It was impossible to contemplate!

And Corsica! He’d failed, there, on his native soil. Unable to subdue the few misguided fools who still followed that old rebel Paoli into another rebellion, this time against France. Before the Bloodies, the British, had landed. And all the Royalists who’d fled there! . . . Not for much longer would they swagger over his ancestors’ very gardens, he swore. Not if he could do anything about it, this fine summer of 1796!

One more deep, calming breath, a fond, doting smile at her portrait again—an artichoke-heart’s smile? He stiffened. No, Josephine was his grand, his one, his only epic love!

Another essay at a round, sure hand, in the proper mood of the absent, ardent—trusting!—lover. He wrote his name. This time it came out round, firm, simpler.

Napoleon Bonaparte.

BOOK I

Felices, mediis que sedare fluctibus ausi

nec tantas timuere vias talemque secuti

huc qui deinde verum; sed sic quoque talis abito.

Happy, they who braved the intervening seas,

nor feared so long a voyage, but straightaway

followed so valiant a hero to this land; for

all that, valiant though he be, let him begone.

Argonautica, Book VII, 18–20

Gaius Valerius Flaccus

CHAPTER 1

Admiral Sir John Jervis was a stocky man, just turned a spry and still energetic sixty years of age. Still quite handsome, too, for he had been a lovely youth, and had sat to Frances Cotes for a remarkable portrait once in his teens. Duty, though, and awesome responsibilities, had hunched his shoulders like some Atlas doomed to carry the Earth on his rounded back. Keeping a British fleet in the Mediterranean, such was the task that wore him down now, countering the ever-growing strength of the French Navy. Suffering the foolish decisions—or total lack of decisions—of his predecessor, the hapless Admiral Hotham, who had dithered and dallied while the French grew stronger, frittering away priceless advantages in his nail-biting fogs, merely reacting to French move and countermove, or diluting his own strength in pointless patrols or flag-visits.

Now France was in the ascendant, and he was in the unen-viable position of being outnumbered at sea, should the French ever concentrate and come out. There were no allies left in the First Coalition possessed of anything even approaching a navy; the Neapolitans’ feet had gone quite stone-cold after Toulon had fallen in ’93, and sat on the sidelines. British troops were still committed to the colonial wars, dying by the regiments of tropical diseases on East and West Indies islands where Jervis himself had held the upper hand.

To guard the Gibraltar approaches, he had to send a part of his fleet west, yet French line-of-battle ships still slipped into the Mediterranean from Rochefort, L’Orient and Brest, on the Bay of Biscay, fresh from the refit yards, some fresh from the launch-ramps. Over twenty-three sail of the line were at Toulon, that he knew of. French grain convoys from North Africa and the piratical Barbary States had to be hunted down and intercepted. He had to hold a part of his fleet in San Fiorenzo Bay, near the northern tip of Corsica, Cape Corse, just in case the French sallied forth from Toulon.

The Barbary States, encouraged by general war, had to be kept under observation, before his supply ships and transports proved to be too great a temptation for their corsairs in their swift xebecs.

Then there were the Austrians—goddamn them.

They were the only ally left that had a huge army. Even that very moment, they were skirmishing along the Rhine for an invasion of France, and still had enough troops to threaten a second invasion in Savoy, then into the approaches of Toulon. With Toulon his again, he might breathe easier; that French fleet would be burned, properly this time, or scattered to fishing villages in penny-packets.

But the Austrians were not happy with His Majesty’s Government, nor with the Royal Navy, at present. Late the previous year, General de Vins had lost his army—they’d run like terrorised kittens—at the very sight of French soldiers, losing him the use of Genoa and the Genoese Riviera as a base. And, of course, they’d blamed being run inland and eastward on lack of naval support.

Captain Horatio Nelson’s small squadron, now much reduced by wear-and-tear, now blockaded harbours where they had funneled supplies and pay to the Austrians the previous year, plodding off-and-on that coast, which was now French-occupied, and hostile. A valuable duty, aye, Sir John mused most sourly; but not much use in supporting a new Austrian spring offensive.

Hands clasped in the small of his back, he stomped the stern-gallery of his flagship, the 1st Rate HMS Victory, taking a welcome few moments of fresh air from his stuffy great-cabins, away from the mounds of paperwork, away from the warnings and cautions from London, which charged him to coddle the Austrians no matter what, and keep them in the war, and to maintain sea-contact with them so the gold and silver could flow to purchase their allegiance.

He heaved a great round-shouldered sigh and scrubbed at his massy chin in thought, trying to conjure a way in which to remain concentrated for a sea-fight, which he was pretty sure he would win should it come. British Tars were unequaled, and his own ships, even at bad odds, he was certain, could still outsail, outmanoeuvre and outfight the poorly practiced French. He must remain strong, yet fulfill every area that demanded the presence of Royal Navy ships.

Excuse me, Sir John, his harassed flag-captain interrupted, but Captain Charlton has come aboard as you bid, and is without.

Hah! Sir John harrumphed, with very little evidence of pleasure. But then, Old Jarvy had never been very big on Pleasure. Very good, sir, send him in.

Another of Hotham’s. Old Jarvy frowned from behind his desk in his day-cabin as Captain Thomas Charlton entered. He’d never met this fellow, even in peacetime service when the Royal Navy was reduced to quarter-strength. Good enough record, he’d found, but nothing particularly distinguished since the American War. Good patrons, Charlton had, though; even if Hotham was his principal sea-daddy, there were enough recommendations from others he trusted more who had vouched for him.

Thomas Charlton, come aboard as directed, sir, the man piped up, with just more than a touch of cool wariness to his voice. Old Jarvy was one of the sternest disciplinarians in the Fleet, known for a volcanic temper when aroused. Known for using a hatchet when a penknife would suit others, too, when it came to dealing with those who’d irked him. Charlton reviewed his recent past; had he done something wrong?

Captain Charlton, well met, sir. Take a seat. And I will have a glass with you, Sir John Jervis offered, almost sounding affable.

With a well-concealed sigh of relief, Captain Charlton sat, his gold-laced hat in his lap, happy that it wouldn’t be his arse that was reamed out—not this time.

A few minutes of social prosing, enquiries about acquaintances, even a politic question as to his predecessor Admiral Hotham’s newest posting; then Sir John put the situation before Charlton, liking what first impression he’d drawn of the man.

Not that he had that much choice; those senior post-captains he knew well enough to trust, some of whom he’d stood sea-daddy to, or those he’d learned he could trust with responsibility once he’d taken command, were already busy about his, and their King’s, business. He counted himself fortunate that he’d found another he could trust; much like turning over a mossy rock and not finding the usual slug!

Charlton was nearly six feet tall, a little above middle height; a slim and wiry sort, most-like possessed of a spare appetite and a spartan constitution. Most captains in their late forties went all suety, to tripes and trullibubs from too many grand suppers and the arrival of modest wealth and good pay, at last.

A lean, intelligent face, well weathered by wind, sea and sun. He wore his own hair instead of a side-curl wig, which was wiry, going to grey the slightest bit, though like most well-to-do Englishmen who could boast membership in the Squirearchy, that class which led regiments, captained the King’s ships, or sat in Parliament (as Jervis had) Charlton still owned a full head of it. A very regular, sturdy sort was Charlton; salt of the earth. Or salt of the sea. His brown eyes sparkled with clear-headed wit, and his brow hinted at a cleverness, an ability to extemporise, should duty call for it. Well, not too clever, Sir John hoped. Like young Nelson off Genoa at the moment, there were only so many and no more in every generation who had experience enough to temper their cleverness with caution. For better or worse, Charlton would just possibly do, Sir John decided.

I expect Admiral Man’s arrival weekly, d’ye see, sir, Sir John told him. Eight more sail of the line, and several more frigates. Relying on the promise of his reinforcement by Our Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, I may now make such dispositions which I’ve had planned for some time. Such as keeping a squadron far west, to keep an eye on the Straits of Gibraltar. And the Dons. I cannot imagine a least likely alliance—Levelling, Jacobin France, and the Spanish Bourbon Crown. ’Twas Bourbons the Frogs chopped when the Terror began, hmm? Their fleet at Cadiz, Cartagena, and Barcelona, d’ye see. Spanish banks honouring French notes . . . signing a nonaggression treaty with ’em. Should they come in against us . . . well!

Perhaps Spain’s long-term hatred for us outweighs their hatred for the Revolution, Sir John? Captain Charlton posed. There’s our possession of Spanish soil at Gibraltar.

Aye, Sir John said with an appreciative smile—his first that was not merely polite—thinking that his choice for an onerous and fraught-with-danger mission would turn out to be a sensible captain, after all. Even if his voice was a little too nasal, and Oxonian plumby in local accent. He sounded more House of Lords than House of Commons, where he’d sat. Still, the Italians and the Austrians might expect a British officer, sole representative of his nation’s navy, to sound more like the ambassadors they were used to. Or, being foreigners, might not notice the difference.

Have you any Italian, sir? Sir John pressed. Or German?

A smattering of both, Sir John. Charlton frowned in puzzlement.

Capital! Jervis actually beamed. Simply capital! As for the necessity, now sir . . . with Genoa gone, and the Austrian army far inland, we cannot cooperate with them, nor communicate. There is the matter of Vado Bay, where . . .

They ran like rabbits, Sir John? Charlton dared interpose.

Jervis nodded. Hence, no way to ship them the cash subsidies to fund their armies on the Rhine or in Italy. The Austrian Netherlands are lost, the Dutch and their navy are now French allies, and block the route down the Rhine, or overland through the Germanies. The only port left open to Austria is Trieste, on the Adriatic.

I see, sir! Charlton tensed, though filled with a well-hidden exuberance. This smacked of an independent command, of responsibility far from the everyday control of the flagship. Thirty years Charlton had served, in war or peace, from Gentleman Volunteer at age twelve, to Midshipman, then a commission, and years as a Lieutenant. Patrons had eased his climb up the ladder, had gotten him a brig o’ war during the American Revolution, promotion to Commander, then at last a ship of his own and his captaincy. Where he’d languished since, even if he did have good patrons and was well connected. He’d not gotten a ship of the line when he’d been called back to the Colours in ’93. He was just senior enough for a 5th Rate frigate, HMS Lionheart, one of the new 18-pounders of 36 heavy guns, plus chase-guns and carronades.

But what Sir John Jervis was offering him was a squadron, he speculated. Might it also include a promotion to commodore of the second class? Fly his own broad-pendant at long last, with a flag-captain under him to supervise the day-to-day functioning of his new ship? Perhaps exchange for a 3rd Rate 74, even an older 64, or one of the few ancient 50-gunned 4th Rates?

You’re to have a squadron, Captain Charlton, Sir John said, as if in answer to his every dream, that instant! A thin ’un, given the paucity of bottoms we have at present, but a squadron nonetheless. It cannot come with a proper broad-pendant, I fear. That’s the leap in rank reserved for Our Lords Commissioners to decide.

Of course, Charlton realised, deflating a little, though hiding his disappointment as well as he’d concealed his enthusiasm. An English gentleman was raised to be serene and stoic, no matter what! Admirals on foreign stations couldn’t promote at will. But a good performance during a brief spell of detached duty could incline the Admiralty to reward him. If he made good, if he could safely steer a wary course ’tween diplomatic niceties, neutrals’ rights and the zealous performance . . .

There’s your Lionheart, Admiral Jervis was saying. Then I may spare Pylades. She’s new-come from Chatham, a 5th Rate, thirty-two guns. A ‘twelve-pounder,’ being a tad older, of course. Benjamin Rodgers is her captain. A bit ‘fly,’ but a fighter. About as active as a hungry terrier in the rat-pit, I’m told. Only two others, d’ye see, ship-sloops, I’m sorry to say. But their shallower draught is certain to prove handy in the Adriatic ’midst all those islands. I may spare Myrmidon. An eighteen-gun, below the Rates. Six-pounders.

A most felicitous choice, Sir John; thankee, Charlton said with a broad grin.

Aye, her captain’s known to you, Jervis stated, very flatly.

An admiral departing a foreign station was allowed several few promotions without Admiralty approval; one Midshipman to Lieutenant, without having to face an Examining Board of post-captains; one Lieutenant to Commander, and one Commander to Post-Captain. When Hotham left, he’d anointed Lt. William Fillebrowne from his own flagship’s wardroom (the surest route to quick advancement, that) to Commander, and put him into Myrmidon, to replace another favourite who’d gotten the Departure Blessing to Post-Captain into a 6th Rate Frigate whose own captain had gone sick.

Charlton and Fillebrowne, both protégés of the same patron, were surely known to each other already, Jervis thought. Perhaps were from that same mould that Hotham thought most valuable to the Fleet. He had no wish to curry favour with Hotham in this regard—damn his blood!—but they might work together the better for being dipped in the same ha’porth of tar. Charlton he thought he might be able to trust. Fillebrowne, well . . .

Come to think on’t, he mused as his cabin-steward poured them a top-up of claret, the one time he’d met Fillebrowne, he’d struck Jervis as a bit too suave, too cultured—too quick to smarm and try to piss down his back. With the same Oxonian mumble as Hotham or Charlton. A very smooth customer, entirely. Tarry-handed, Jervis grudgingly allowed, but with cat-quick wits, and the amusedly observant air of the practiced rakehell, who went about with his tongue forever stuck in his cheek.

Jervis thought he could trust Charlton to handle this mission— and keep a wary weather eye on Fillebrowne, for Fillebrowne wasn’t the sort Sir John wished to have round him.

The last vessel I may spare is a tad more potent, sir, Sir John said with a smack of his lips after a sip of wine. HMS Jester. Another ship-sloop of eighteen guns. But French eight-pounders, which is to say, English nines, in our measurement. Just came in to water from the Genoa blockade. Hate to deprive Captain Nelson, but, needs must. Commander Alan Lewrie.

Ah, Charlton commented, frowning a bit. Took her late in ’93, didn’t he, sir? Quite a feat, I heard tell. Being chased by a frigate and a brace of corvettes after Toulon? Took one for his own, dismasted the other and the rescue force took the frigate?

That he did, sir, Sir John agreed, with a matching frown.

Spot of bother, though, something ’bout cannonading civilians in a Genoese port he raided? Charlton squirmed diplomatically.

Completely disproved, sir, Admiral Jervis countered, though he continued to frown. A gasconading lie put out by French spies and agents provocateurs. The matter was looked into and he was found entirely blameless.

Didn’t he, uhmm . . . oh, some months ago, sir. Charlton dared to quibble further. Took a prize near Vado, then sailed her straight onto the beach and wrecked her, just so he could chase some Frenchman? Mean t’say, Sir John . . . a perfectly good prize?

Rode inland and shot the fellow, Jervis related, nodding slowly in agreement. Two-hundred-yard shot, with a Ferguson rifle. And spared us no end of bother from this Frog Navy captain. Chief of all their coastal convoys, raiders and escorts, so I’ve been informed. A rather nasty customer. But he stopped his business most perfectly.

A bit unconventional, though. Don’t ye think, sir? Charlton essayed. He was not yet a Commodore, not yet one of the anointed, so well regarded by his commanding Admiral or London that he could veto a ship or captain. To be allowed to pick and choose, that was a favour granted only a remarkable few. And this was about as far as he could go, or ought to go, to suggest to Admiral Jervis that he would much prefer someone else; some other small ship. Taking a Frog corvette, being all dashing and brave—well, anyone could be brave, even the daft and foolhardy. Wrecking a valuable prize, going ashore and leaving one’s command, just to pot a Frog, well, that made this Lewrie sound as mad as a March hare!

Unconventional, hmm. Sir John pondered over his claret. He rubbed his chin once more and then broke into an icy grin. To say the least, sir! And, it doesn’t signify. After all, beggars can’t be choosers, hmm? But he’s all I have to spare. It may occur, sir, that Lewrie and Jester will prove useful to you. Above all, he knows how to fight! And he’s experienced in blockading with Captain Nelson’s squadron. And you’ll be hip-deep in supposedly ‘neutral’ merchantmen where you’re going.

Of course, sir, Charlton replied, aware that he’d just been taken down a peg by the Admiral’s beggars can’t be choosers remark.

You must first of all sweep that sea clean of French traders, warships and such, should they be there in force, Jervis directed, back to business. You are to completely estop the traffic in naval stores—Adriatic oak and Balkan pine—which supports the French fleet in the Mediterranean. You will stop and inspect every ship you meet, determining their bonafides, and whether they are laden with a contraband cargo or sailing to a French-held port.

Aye aye, sir, Charlton replied firmly.

Further, you will liaise with our allies the Austrians and perform for them any task which a Royal Navy squadron may do to keep their friendship, Jervis hammered out, though not without a slight sneer about Austrian friendship. Have an eye toward strengthening or expanding what poor excuse they deem their Adriatic Squadron. As for Venice, well, make a port-call or two. Put a flea in her ear ’bout throwing in with us. Venice may be on her last legs, but she still is possessed of a substantial fleet of ships and useful bases in the Ionian Islands. The Foreign Office is working on that aspect now, and the presence of your squadron might just tip the scales in our favour, d’ye see. Escort and protect any and all British trade, as well. Goes without sayin’, hmm? And the merchant vessels of the Neapolitans, Papal States, Venice. . . and other. . . how do they put it? ‘Ships of those nations in amity with His Majesty’s Government’?

I see, sir. Charlton nodded soberly.

B’lieve ’twas Pitt the Elder, Sir John mused, but you must not quote me, sir, said that ‘trade follows the flag’? Well, this time round, perhaps the flag must follow trade, hmm?

Of course, sir. Charlton nodded again.

Pylades and Jester are here, at San Fiorenzo Bay, sir, Sir John grumbled. It was rare that he made a jest, and he’d thought it a rare good’un; though Charlton hadn’t risen to it. Myrmidon is down in Portoferrajo, on Elba. She escorted a troop-ship, so we could begin fortifying Elba and the isle of Capraia. At least protect the sea-lanes to Leghorn. And Corsica’s flanks. Close the Tyrrhennian Sea to French ships, at least, should they have a plan to seize those isles first, d’ye see.

With Genoa gone, her port city and capital now regarded as hostile, Tuscany was wavering, too, much like the Neapolitans. Admiral Jervis all but winced as he considered it. The Tuscans were leery of allowing Great Britain to base its fleet out of Porto Especia, or Leghorn, any longer. Garrisoning Capraia and Elba was a safeguard so that Tuscany did not think to put troops on them first!

You will sail as soon as the wind allows you, Captain Charlton, he said. And gather up Myrmidon on your way. Written orders and such will be aboard Lionheart no later than the end of the Second Dog-watch this evening. Along with copies of Admiralty and Foreign Office directives to me, too. To enlighten you. As much as Foreign Office despatches may enlighten anyone, hmm?

Very good, Sir John, Charlton said, rising. And thankee for the opportunity, sir. For your faith in me. You shan’t regret it, I swear to you.

I’d best not, sir, Admiral Jervis cooed in reply, with that bleak and wintry smile of sardonic humour of his. Good fortune, sir. And good huntin’, Captain Charlton.

Aye aye, sir! Charlton nodded, wilting, in spite of the honour just done him. And vowing to himself that he would prove worthy of his awesome new trust—if he died in the attempt. Or had to kill somebody else to do it!

In the great-cabins he’d just left, Admiral Sir John Jervis allowed himself a brief moment of leisure to savour the satisfaction he felt in having done himself, and Captain Nelson, a favour.

This Lewrie fellow was a bit too much the fly character to suit him. A stallion more suited to the rare oval racecourse, or the neck-or-nothing dash cross winter fields in a steeple-chase. And the source of his information was the Foreign Office, their own spies, those who’d used Lewrie before. He was too headstrong to suit them as well. Too prone to take the bit in his teeth and gallop to suit the gallant Nelson.

But perhaps Lewrie would be the perfect addition to Charlton’s ad hoc, understrength and isolated squadron. Old Jarvy might have just done the Captain a huge favour. Or the greatest harm. Only time, and events, might tell.

And either way, he was shot of him!

CHAPTER 2

He was making good practice, well into a bawdy little tune of an earlier century: Watkins’ Ale. He sat on the aftermost taffrail flag-lockers, feet atop the edge of the coach-top built into the